


A Purpose-Driven Life

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Black Books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by jadeddiva</p><p>One morning, Fran woke with a purpose, one to be discovered after a cuppa and a short walk to Bernard's shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Purpose-Driven Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Derek Des Anges

 

 

 

 

A Purpose-Driven Life

Like every morning, Fran woke up to the sounds of screeching car tires and cursing that grew more creative as the weather grew colder (rainy January days were particularly fascinating); like every morning, she closed her eyes for one moment and wished for a glass of wine and cricket bat, not in that order but each suiting its own purpose (self-explanatory, of course).

Like every morning, she estimated the days from her last shag until her next, days from her last birthday to her next, minutes from her last glass of wine to her next. It was easy if you passed the day like that, but rent sometimes came due, and sometimes Bernard would be buzzing at her door, or Manny, and the tranquility of watching time float by under the comfort of a duvet was enough.

But unlike most mornings, when a cricket bat was a longed-for wish and mediocrity a happy medium - no! - unlike most mornings, Fran woke to find she was thirty-two, she lived in a shit hole of a flat, and she needed to do something with her life before she died and was eaten by cats and maybe that kid who lived across the hall and looked like he ate anything.

No. This morning, Fran woke with a purpose, one to be discovered after a cuppa and a short walk to Bernard's shop.

...

"I need a purpose," she said forcefully (with a carefully cultivated edge of desperation that always seem to wear down the bastard's crusty defenses). "Something to make my life meaningful."

Bernard glanced up from his book.

"Your life isn't meaningful enough with me in it?" he asked sincerely (or, what could be considered sincere but probably wasn't, considering the source).

"Maybe I just need more than this," she told Bernard, but before he could make a rude gesture with the wine glass, Manny stepped in.

"Maybe you could take a class," he suggested, ever-intelligent and thoughtful. "Macramé? Origami? Flower arranging?"

The thought of her empty flat covered with flowers was tempting, though the allusion destroyed by the multitude of dead cats that would still eat her because flower arranging, whilst cheerful and decorative, was not a Purpose.

"Excellent suggestion, Manny," she said. "But flowers die. Perhaps something more...useful."

"Creative writing?" Manny suggested, and lights and a cacophony of bells went off in Fran's head.

"Damn fire brigade," Bernard mumbled, slouching further into his chair. "Training courses for the past week - like people don't know how to respond to a fire."

He glanced up at Fran for a moment, then added with a shrug, "It's not like whatever you write will be worse than half the shite out there."

...

The class at the community centre, whilst helpful, did little to bring out her inner writer, but Fran suspected that was because she was a writer already. After all, she was quite creative in her everyday life, especially her To Do lists, and so naturally the creativity would translate well onto the page. If not, there was always alcohol. She wrote day and night, stopping only to run out to the shop when her crisps and wine ran low, and when she was done, she had created the world's next masterpiece.

Of course, she showed Bernard. After all, he owned a bookshop - he knew quality literature, and she needed to bask in the glory of her newfound purpose.

"I could produce a shit that would write a better short story than this," Bernard said. "In fact, the thing that lives between Dickens and Dickenson could write better than this."

"No," Manny said from behind the chair, broomstick handle edging slowly upwards towards the aforementioned shelf. "I think it favors the Russian style better."

"Why do you say that?" Bernard asked, narrowing his eyes. Manny gestured to the bookshelf.

"Has it migrated again? I'm going to start charging rent," Bernard said angrily, jumping from his chair and heading towards the general vicinity of the Russian writers (for now).

"So you think it needs more revision? Maybe a motif, or a conceit?" she asked, staring at her now-abandoned manuscript sitting solitary and sadly on Bernard's desk.

"I think it may be holed up in Tolstoy," Manny said, peering between two books and jumping back. "Quick! The shovel."

"I'll teach you pain and suffering!" Bernard shouted, raising the gardening tool in the air.

Fran realized this could only end badly and while the writer in her baulked at cowardice, she scooped up the pile of papers carefully and edged towards the door, being careful not to trip over the stack of outdated literary magazines.

...

Croquet. Cricket. Football. Tennis. There were literally hundreds of hobbies but none with a Purpose, and no outdoor sports fit her indoor lifestyle.

She didn't especially believe in a higher being, or in any sort of being that controlled her destiny, so religion was out. She liked meat. She like money, and shopping, though her recent spate of unemployment since her shop closed seemed ominous, and not exactly Purpose-driven. She liked men, but she was picky. She liked wine.

She liked wine, and someone that could suffice for now.

She could write about wine! All the colours and shapes and textures!

Or she could just drink and enjoy it.

Wine. Perhaps that was the solution.

...

"If I'm not good at writing, what else am I good at?" she asked Manny whilst dredging the remaining wine from the bottle (she didn't care if her lips were stained purple, this Shiraz was brilliant).

Manny shrugged, the gesture vaguely disconcerting with his lack of eyebrows (he never did explain how that happened). "Did you try macramé?"  
"No," she started, but Bernard appeared with another bottle of wine. He set it on the table and asked, quite frankly, "how long are your relationships, Fran? One week? Two?"

"I am very picky," she said, quick to defend herself, but Bernard gestured wildly, and she was quiet once more.

"I've come to the conclusion, Fran, that you are very good at repelling men which means you might be good with repelling vermin." He raised an eyebrow. "A case of wine if you stay in the shop for a night and drive the wee beastie out."

"Is my life and safety only worth a case of wine?" Fran asked, indignant, and even more so when Manny and Bernard both nodded their heads. "No."

"This could be your purpose," Manny pointed out.

"Purpose. Capital P. Important," she said, feeling as if the wine was suddenly rushing to her head. Maybe she could do this. Maybe her purpose was to be an...exterminator?

"Maybe I could just volunteer at a shelter?" she asked, "or cook for the homeless?"

"I'm homeless if you don't help me get that thing out of my shop!" Bernard shouted.

Fran looked around the empty shop. The last sounds she heard had come from the far corner where Bernard housed art history, and she was sure that, in the thick dusty tomes, the thing would find a home. After all, it had been here for over three years, it probably had every right to be there.

What if her purpose was to save the thing?

"I need more wine," she said, holding out a class. "I'm starting to hallucinating, which means I'm sobering up."

"What if your purpose," Manny said, "was no more than this? What if your purpose is to sit here with us and drink wine?"

He was cross-eyed by now, but he had a point. She held the class up to the light.

"S'not so bad."

From the art history corner, a dull thud resounded, followed by a whimper, and then silence.

"Thank the Lord!" Bernard cried, "we've persevered!"

With that, Fran realized that maybe there were Purposes and purposes, but there was always good wine, and it didn't matter what you did with your life as long as there was good wine.

 

 

 


End file.
